Craving His Captive (The Omertà Brotherhood #2)

Chapter 1

SERA

The limping footsteps.

The key in the lock.

The scrape of metal against concrete.

It’s the same routine, the same warning signs in the exact same order, every time he comes. “Fuck me, you reek.”

Confined to the mattress, I turn toward his voice. Not that it helps. There must be some sort of light from the hallway, but I can’t see him. I can barely move. Sure as hell can’t run.

Rocco is humming off-key. Any other time I’d hate it, but right now it helps me track his location in the room. How close he is to touching me.

I haven’t been able to see for weeks. Maybe even months. I have no way of knowing how long I’ve been down here. Rocco took me from my family’s house three days after Thanksgiving, my mother, aunts, uncles, and cousins standing by as he hauled me out by my hair and tossed me in the back of his car.

His guards lined the halls of his gaudy house as he dragged me through the front door, down the concealed staircase, and through the labyrinthian lower level to this windowless cell.

His second-in-command, Dario, one of my millions of distant cousins, practically ate me with his eyes as Rocco stripped me naked, kicked my legs out from under me, and knocked me down to a filthy mattress where he manacled my wrists and ankles.

The chains are long enough that I can sit up, change positions on the mattress, and get to the bucket that serves as my sorry excuse for a toilet. But that’s it.

The entire time, I screamed. Shouted, swore. Begged, pleaded. Promised anyone anything if they’d stop this. Stop him.

No one said a word. No one lifted a finger.

No one except Dario, who took ages to blindfold me, rubbing his groin against my body the entire time.

Ever since I hit puberty everyone in my family has relished telling me how unattractive I am.

Too tall, too boyish. Too many muscles. No boobs, not enough curves.

Nothing for a man to dig his fingers into when he takes pleasure in me.

It’s a running joke among the Paganos, but it didn’t stop Dario from getting himself hard against my stomach as he tied the blindfold on.

When the door’s closed the cell is pitch black, which makes the blindfold an unnecessary mind fuck.

A power move on my uncle’s part to keep me constantly on edge.

In the beginning, I’d take it off as soon as they left.

But every time Dario came back, he made sure I felt every inch of him as he tied it back on. I don’t bother touching it now.

The memory makes me gag, the reflex hollow on a bone-dry stomach. I can feel Rocco nearby, waiting to pounce. His acrid breath blasts across my nose. “Sasquatch, you really do fucking stink.”

My lips are too dry to move. My voice a drought of sound. All I can do is roll my head against the mattress, the movement floppy, my muscles getting weaker by the day.

Rocco laughs. It’s disturbing. Desperate.

Just before he kidnapped me, the Paganos were trying to overthrow Chicago’s ruling mafiosi.

The Cerretis have owned the city since long before my uncle and parents were born but, sfigato that he is, Rocco thought he could stage a coup and actually win.

Even someone like me, a non-entity on the Family food chain, knew it was a losing battle before it began.

No one fucks with the Cerretis and lives to tell about it.

I don’t know how long I’ve been in this cell, but every time my captor comes to visit, he smells more and more desperate. Gets more and more vicious.

I’m pretty sure he’s losing his war. And I’m paying the price.

Rocco stabs a finger against the paper-dry skin of my chest. “Starving you was a good idea. You look like you have tits now. Your price just went up. Lucky you.”

Lucky me. I squeeze my eyes tight behind the blindfold. I’m too dehydrated to cry, but the burn offers a little distraction from the dread condensing in my gut.

“We have to clean you, obviously. No one is going to want you stinking of piss.”

I smell of more than that. I’ve always known Rocco kept these rooms in the basement.

Always known that the people who came down here were never seen again.

But I’d never let myself think about what happened to them.

About what being held like this means. How inhumane it is.

How all your bodily functions are on display for anyone who enters. Piss, shit, blood, all of it.

Not that I’ve had any normal bodily functions for what feels like ages. Not eating will do that to a girl.

Rocco’s next jab hits me square in the stomach. I curl inward, trying to protect myself with my arms and legs, but the chains don’t have enough slack.

Without the benefit of sight or of any way of keeping track of when people come and go from my cell, I have no idea how long I’ve been tied down like this.

Or how long it’s been since he was here…

Any thoughts of that other man scatter when Rocco continues, voice disturbingly gleeful, “Those fuckers always go nuts over the skinny ones. Something about how much younger it makes them look.”

Jesus. I’m only twenty-one. How much younger do they want?

Answer: the younger, the more malleable, the more vulnerable, the better.

The more alone.

That’s the thought that makes me fragile, tips me toward my breaking point. I’m alone here. Abandoned by the people who are supposed to care about me the most. My entire family knows Rocco has me tied up, but no one has tried to free me. I’m not surprised, but, fuck, it makes it hard to breathe.

Breathe.

It’s exactly why I have to, no matter what. Because if I don’t figure out how to survive this—and what Rocco has planned next—I’m going to die. No one in the Pagano clan will mourn me, only the money they’ve lost from the sale of my warm body.

Rocco’s rancid breath hits my face. He’s so close, his body hovering above mine. “What a tempting little bitch you are, tied down like this. Ugly, but you’ve still got so much fight. You have no idea how much fucking money you’re going to make me. All the same…”

I barely have time to process that I’m moving before my uncle drags me across the floor by my chains, only stopping long enough to yank my arms above my head.

He stretches my arms painfully high, secures the chains from the ceiling somehow.

He releases the restraints from my ankles and my knees grind into the cold concrete floor as he positions me exactly as he wants. Captive and kneeling before him.

The sudden change of position makes me lightheaded.

It takes a minute before I realize Rocco is circling me.

I can hear the uneven tread of his feet.

Draaag, step. Draaag, step. Eyes closed behind my blindfold, I work to regulate my breathing.

Slow my pulse rate. Brace for whatever the hell is about to happen next.

Whatever it is, it won’t be good.

Panic creeps into my bloodstream and I do everything I can to fight it off. I don’t want to give my uncle the satisfaction of seeing me break, so I scramble for something to help me stay strong. In my own personal darkness, I let my mind wander…to him.

I don’t know who he is or why he comes. How he found me or why he even cares, but the moments he sneaks into my cell are the sustenance keeping me alive.

If I were in my right mind, I’d worry about how much significance I place on those flashes of time.

Snippets of memory. Like how large his hand was, calloused and warm against my cheek.

Like how he smoothed chapstick against my lips, soothing the cracked and bloody surface.

Like how patiently he helped me sip water, not shying away when my stomach rebelled and I vomited it right back up.

The human body can’t survive for more than three to five days without water. I’m no use to Rocco dead, but he and his guards can’t seem to remember to give it to me on any sort of regular schedule.

My mystery visitor doesn’t forget. He murmurs encouragement as he helps me drink. At least, I think it’s encouragement. He speaks in a language I don’t understand, his voice so soft I can barely hear it. But whatever he says loosens the vise around my chest, helps me pretend I’m anywhere but here.

His visits never last more than a minute or two.

He doesn’t ask my name. He’s never told me his.

He’s never tried to free me, either. Never made any promises that he will.

But, when things get really, really bad, when Rocco starts to spit vitriol like he’s doing right now, I fantasize that he does come. That he materializes in my cell, footsteps as silent as ever, and he cuts Rocco down, cuts me free, and carries me out of this hell.

The most twisted fairy tale, a captive who is anything but a princess, rescued by the darkest of knights.

I have to be honest with myself. If the man has access to Rocco’s subterranean torture cells, he’s not a hero. He’s as deep into this violent life as anyone else. Maybe even as monstrous as my uncle.

But that doesn’t stop me from fantasizing. From giving myself some crumb of hope to cling to, especially when I hear Rocco’s body weight shift ominously, my stomach muscles convulsing as my uncle introduces a new twisted element to his visits.

“Fuck, Sasquatch. I’m starting to worry you’ll forget your family when you’re gone. How about I give you something to remember us by?”

The first punch knocks the wind out of me. A fist straight to my stomach. Rocco’s a brute and when it comes to hurting women, he’s a pro. He won’t hit my face or break any critical bones. He won’t leave any evidence that can’t be covered up with makeup before the auction begins.

Rocco starts to laugh and I let my mind curl in on itself. Let myself remember that other man’s featherlight touch against my cheek. How the cadence of his voice made me feel less alone, how his unexpected tenderness made me feel nothing like the broken mess I am.

I can tell by the shifting of air around me that Rocco’s raised his arm for another strike.

Silenzio. The only word he’s ever said that I understand. Quiet.

And I am. Rocco’s fist hits its target, an explosion in my ribs that ricochets across my skeleton. I bite the inside of my cheek, the metallic tang of blood flooding my mouth. Between the lack of food and the beating, I doubt I’ll be conscious much longer.

White spots are already dancing behind my eyelids when I hear a new sound. The sing of metal slicing through the air. Oh, God. No, no, no, no, no. Rocco’s just pulled a knife. He’s muttering vile, hateful things and I start to shake. Except, the ceiling is shaking too.

I’m not imagining it. Tremors ripple down my chains, my arms vibrating painfully.

An explosion rocks the hall outside.

Rocco curses, dropping the knife. The metal rattles somewhere near my knees as I start to smell smoke.

“Che cazzo!? What the fuck is happening?” Rocco’s voice retreats as he opens the cell door, shouting expletives when foul, acrid air immediately fills the confined space. “Fuck. Fuck! What the—?”

Beneath his rage-filled ranting, Rocco is terrified.

It sounds like there’s a war going on above our heads. Things breaking, people running, shouts and the rat-tat-tat of automatic weapons. Loud thuds of bodies hitting the floor.

I strain my ears, scrambling to understand what’s going on as the chaos gets closer.

Footsteps pound on the basement’s concrete floor, the call and response of someone chasing and another trying to escape.

There are gunshots. Still rooms away but getting closer.

I can hear Rocco pull back the hammer on his gun. The click sends goosebumps over my exposed skin. He’s not going to waste a bullet protecting me. His fuck-ups have brought the war into his house; I’m the last thing he’s worried about.

I sense the second he runs away, leaving me tied to the ceiling, naked, on the verge of blacking out, and entirely at the mercy of whoever steps into my little corner of hell next.

Time stretches, the violent noises skirting around my cell but never entering. The footsteps retreat, the gunfire getting further away. I start shaking, suddenly very, very cold. It takes me a second to realize why. There’s a draft.

Rocco left the door open.

And his knife at my knees.

And my legs unchained.

I have no idea how I’m going to make those things work for me but, goddammit, I’ve got to try.

I’m psyching myself up, mentally cataloguing all the things my legs were once capable of when I was a high school athlete.

Surely, I can figure out a way to use my feet to get ahold of the knife.

Somehow pass it to my mouth. Then, if I can force myself to stand, maybe I can use the knife to get my hands free.

It’s too insane to even be considered a long shot, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and I’ve never been so desperate in my life.

I’m about to force my feet to function when I realize I’m not alone. There’s a new smell in the room. One I recognize. My stomach skydives when I recognize the voice too.

“Fuck me, little cousin. Looks like you and I are finally alone.”